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Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the cleat pane sof glass, proteting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my books, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. At far, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.
——《Jane Eyre》 |
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